


pitch black where heaven is

by adarksweetness (chayaasi)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Angst with a Happy Ending, Incest, M/M, Minor Violence, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-30
Updated: 2014-11-30
Packaged: 2018-02-27 15:24:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2697839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chayaasi/pseuds/adarksweetness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which four siblings reunite for a funeral. </p><p>Michael and Lucifer cannot leave each other well enough alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	pitch black where heaven is

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ofamaranthlie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ofamaranthlie/gifts).



> Happy belated birthday, sweetheart!

Things had a strange way of ending where they began.

Michael remembers dutifully listening to Dad tell stories about where he came from before he made it big: a dingy neighborhood in Detroit where he struggled with bottles of whiskey and a typewriter. But for all that, they'd never visited the place of Dad's origin, so it's a bit surreal to drive through it now and to recognize all these intimate little places—a diner called Kripke's Hollow, the Red Door motel—like a familiar bedtime tale coming to life.

It's far from comforting, however, inside the grey viewing room of the city morgue, especially when the coroner wheels in a gurney and the air goes from Michael's lungs.

A hurried nod of acknowledgement seems to satisfy the policemen present. Michael signs the paperwork they thrust at him, answers some perfunctory questions, and then walks calmly to the washroom where breakfast makes a spectacular comeback.

Having to describe it to Raphael later does not make it any less sordid. There is nothing normal, really, about Dad's lifeless body on a cold slab, dressed in nothing but a bathrobe; about the dozen bottles of whiskey that littered his dingy room at the motel; about Mistress Magda, Becky, and the two brothers who were ostensibly on a road trip in their ’67 Chevy Impala.

These were the people who were with his father during his final moments. These were the people his father chose to be with in his final moments.

Michael is not sure he wants to know the answers to all the questions he has.

—

The sanitized version of billionaire Charles Shurley's death breaks over national media, and less than sanitary speculations by tabloids just rear their heads before Gabriel deigns to call.

 _“Are you serious?”_ the youngest of them exclaims. _“Some drifters found him dead in the middle of a bunch of booze and hookers, at a motel in Detroit?"_

Michael makes an assenting noise because, yeah, that was a succinct way of putting it. Since he’s on his fifth glass of whiskey and is too buzzed to get angry at the disrespect, he wonders instead where Gabriel is calling from, if he’s even in the country.

There’s a muffled sound over the line, like someone speaking far away from the mouthpiece, and Michael scoffs disgustedly to himself. He doesn't expect much from Gabriel, but his brother could have had the courtesy to not have company over when discussing Dad’s--

_“Michael? It’s me…are you ok?"_

The familiar voice hits him like a bag of bricks, enough to make him reel momentarily. He doesn't know whether he's vexed, or glad, or both, that his two most troublesome brothers had managed to find each other after--

_"Michael?"_

“Service is on Sunday morning,” he says curtly. “Come straight to the church."

He hangs up and watches red flames lick the sides of the fireplace for the next two hours.

—

Over the weekend, his own team of professionals report no evidence of foul play or coercion in the events leading to their father’s death. Michael is glad, even if it does come at the cost of watching footage of Dad carouse around town and then die on a shitty motel camera feed.

There is evidence of something else, however, salient enough that Raphael personally handles all pertaining intel. Once the drifters in the Impala are gone, they pay a visit to Becky Rosen. Michael meets her tearful recount of Dad’s last happy moments and dewy musings on the brevity of life with cursory politeness, but it’s her three small children and their familiar little quirks that make it difficult to breathe.

Back at home, Raphael tears into the liquor cabinet for something strong, pours her brother a glass, and takes the bottle for herself. Michael gratefully raises his glass to her back as it disappears in the direction of her room, and spends the rest of night in dubious gratitude for that fact that he can still say he’s above stealing some innocent kids’ juiceboxes for DNA.

—

Sunday aptly dawns as a sunny day, and Michael is too busy to ruminate on the unseemliness of it like a character in a young adult tragedy. He ties up legal ends, approves flower arrangements, briefs his executive assistants, and signs off on itineraries; even spends the car ride to the venue taking care of urgent correspondence. When he arrives, Raphael is already there, talking to Father Joshua by the altar of the church that has grown prosperous on Shurley family patronage for years and today remains empty to honor the late patriarch. Adjacent to her, Gabriel examines a huge vase of calla lilies alone.

The silence of the cathedral is heavy and Michael resists the urge to fidget like a kid at his first recital. The once humbling immensity of the holy house makes him feel so small now; his footsteps echo too loudly along the vaunted hall and his siblings’ greetings are like a susurrus of paper dolls in the emptiness.

It should not be difficult, to put one foot in front of the other just like a soldier, but it is. He’s stretched thin like an elastic string pulled to its limits, and all he wants to do is hurtle back. Back out the door, back to the car, back to bed, back to sleep...

The great doors open again like a groan of relief. Michael pivots on the hair trigger of his silent desperation and…and there he is.

Last to arrive, and on top of that, late. The thoughts come to him unbidden, but Michael is suddenly reminded of all the times he’d ever taunted Lucifer for his attention-seeking behavior only for the latter to smile sweetly and continue right on leading his personal rebellion of the day. Today, however, the little bother who’d brazenly worn band shirts to formal events and secretly read porn during services is wrapped in an impeccable dark suit, wild blond hair arranged into something more respectable than rakish.

Michael watches Lucifer make his own way down the aisle, his whole body an opalescent patchwork under the multicolored light of the massive stained glass windows. They stare at each other for a moment, as still as any of the stone angels tiptoeing on their pedestals.

“It’s good to see you, Michael.” Lucifer says cautiously, voice low and warm.

Michael nods, mouth dry. “You too,” he replies. “It has been too long."

That makes Lucifer smile faintly. “Yeah."

He tries not to notice how much easier it is after that, when he and Lucifer both slot themselves into place beside their younger siblings. Finally, all four of them wait, each as straight and strong and distant as the supporting beams of a house to receive their Father’s ashes.

—

Outside, in the same hot sunshine and the safety of the public eye, Gabriel disturbs the hallowed silence between them to ask about the conspicuous lack of ceremony. “That was…anti-climactic,” he says. "Thought I’d be coming home to a Mass and everything."

“Dad’s orders,” Michael replies, cradling the ornamental urn in his arms. “He didn’t want a wake.”

“Should have had it anyway,” Lucifer cuts in. “It would have given you some closure.”

“This is not about me,” Michael says tightly, eyes steadily ahead.

Lucifer glances at him sidelong. “Of course, it is.” he retorts, as if he were correcting a lapse of common sense. “You’re the one who has to live with it."

//

_His brother had always been his favorite adversary._

_Michael’s tenderest memories of childhood were constant cycles of Lucifer’s silver tongue leading them both to some dangerous edge and him dragging his brother back by his hair. Not that Michael didn’t have his own foibles, but even with his addled mix of temper and disdain, he could never just let Lucifer be. It was no wonder that, time and again, he found himself ensnared even by the least subtle of his brother’s schemes._

_He didn’t mind so much then. There were no words for that kind of love, for the trust that allowed each of them to be the one on whom the other tested his limits. And God knew Lucifer tested him from where he was safely ensconced in Dad’s disproportionate favor, as much or more than he esteemed the mere fact of Michael's existence._

_“You two are fucked up,” Michael remembers Gabriel saying once, after another one of their fights. “How are you cuddling right after going at it like an apocalypse?”_

//

That was then; nobody goes at anything now. Gabriel is chatting away quite amiably to Lucifer, while Raphael shows them something on her phone. Michael cuts at his dinner with near military precision, but has yet to take a bite. He'd taken his usual chair to the right of the table instead of the one at the head. Honestly, It’s the same chair as any in the dining room, but the sheer aura of it still makes him doubt whether he’ll be able to sit in it and see over the table.

“I can’t believe he’s actually gone.” Lucifer’s voice cuts gently through his reverie. The second eldest of the Shurley clan glances around. “Part of me keeps expecting to see him come down the stairs at any moment, you know.”

Michael makes an acknowledging noise, even though he doubts there’s any truth to those words.

“How are you holding up?” Lucifer asks.

"I’m fine.”

Lucifer stares at him expectantly, as if he’s waiting for something more, but nods when there’s only silence. “Ok. By the way, I told Zachariah to reschedule the press conference for later in the week. I tho—“

“You what?” Michael interrupts, annoyed.

“Thought you might want some time for yourself.” Lucifer finishes, brow wrinkling.

“Lucifer,” Michael sounds more exasperated than he intends to. “You shouldn’t have done that. That conference was on the books for days; all our partners and our shareholders were scheduled to attend.”

“They can still attend next week.” Lucifer replies. “Admit it, Michael, we should take some time off and regroup.”

“Who is we?” Michael demands, over the loud clatter of his fork and plate. At the corner of his eyes, Gabriel flinches, but he can’t bring himself to care. He never could spare a thought for others after Lucifer claimed his attention, for better or for worse. “You’re not even a part of this story!”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Lucifer also abandons his dinner, clenches his fists on the table, and history repeats—the eldest two arguing at the head of the table while the younger siblings looked on in silence.

Well, almost.

“It means, you no longer have a say in this family’s affairs, Lucifer.” says Raphael, dabbing daintily at her lips. “You’ll stay until we read the will, of course, but—"

“Oh, save it,” Lucifer interrupts her frostily. “If you want to read the will and move on, fine, but somebody’s got to address how the old man fucked up.”

“Careful, brother.” Raphael’s voice is tight with warning and her expression livid. “He was my father, too, and he’s gone. Tell me which of us could possibly take his place.”

“So what, we’re just going to take our share of the cake and part ways?” The bewildered look on his face is strange to see, and Michael dearly wishes Lucifer would do something about these expectations of his.

Raphael swirls the wine in her glass. “It’s the best course of action,” she explains patiently. “Michael can dismantle the enterprise and even if we divide the majority of assets between us, there’ll still be enough left over to cover for any—“ she makes a pointed gesture. “—indiscretions.”

“Indiscretions,” Lucifer says the word like he’s peeling it apart. “So we’re sure Becky Rosen’s kids are..."

"We don't know that they are.” Raphael responds, chin raised. "In any case, I doubt knowing us will be of any benefit to them."

“Am I the only one here,” Gabriel pipes up around a mouthful of cherry filling. “who thinks sweeping out dear old Dad's secret daycare with wads of cash makes us look like huge douchebags?”

"Bite me, Gabriel." Raphael snaps with her brand of effortless contempt.

Gabriel leers sarcastically. "Maybe later, babe."

“Shut up, all of you,” Michael commands, having had enough. “If you think we can carry on business as usual without Dad, you're wrong." He pauses, feeling his next words tumble at the tip of his tongue. "Maybe we had the potential, once, but things were never the same…after.”

The ensuing silence swallows the haunted noise of Raphael's fingertip on her wineglass and Gabriel poking at the dessert he was having as a main course. Lucifer manages to look argumentative, but even he shuts his mouth as soon as he opens it to speak.

Michael meets his brother's searching glance, and shakes his head just minutely for the futility of it all.

“Oh my god!" Lucifer exclaims. "You all seriously think this is my fault?”

A beat of general disbelief passes, then Raphael stands up in a cacophony of chairs scraping back and linens hitting her plate. “This family, I swear." She untangles herself from them all, and walks out while muttering under her breath.

Even Gabriel shrugs vaguely under Lucifer’s severe gaze. “Come on, son. I mean, the epic tantrum of ’05 was kind of our wildebeest stampede."

“What did you say to me?”

“Sit down!” the neatly arranged settings jerk minutely under the crash of Michael’s hand on the tabletop. For all that there’s a certain measure of regret in seeing his baby brothers end up here from the shining place they'd started, something more than that clutches at him upon seeing Lucifer’s fingers curl so easily around his steak knife at the prospect of fighting with Gabriel.

“Touchy,” the littlest one mutters, and Michael thinks his powers of self-preservation should have been better that.

“So, you’re on Michael’s side,” Lucifer states sardonically. “Fine, I get it."

“Bro, I’m on my side,” their youngest brother retorts in a steely tone that reminds them once every while that he was indeed a Shurley. “You're my brothers, and I love you, but you two are great big bags of dicks. And I know better than to choose.”

Gabriel leaves, and the world narrows even more until it’s a wash of blue and honeyed gold. A vaguely stricken expression clouds Lucifer’s eyes for a moment, and Michael can feel a visceral need to reach out stirring from its burial place in the back of his mind.

“It is one weekend, Lucifer.” he tells him instead, unsure whether it’s meant to be a comfort or a warning. “Just follow the plan; I won’t ask again.”

Throwing his linen napkin on the table, he too walks out with even, purposeful strides that certainly don’t look like he’s fleeing.

//

_There is a version of him that walks in his polished shoes and lives his orderly life. It is nearly everything his Father ever wanted him to be—clean and traditional, yet intelligent in a way that doesn’t make anybody nervous._

_Then, there's another him, made up of all the pieces of he'd scraped away to squeeze into the mold of a good and righteous son—glinting, splintered things that want for light to reveal the colors hidden in their jagged edges. This is the part of him that claws at the bars of his ribcage at the sight of his exiled brother._

_Michael would much rather that part didn’t exist. Sometimes, his skin just can’t contain it._

//

Ashes are soothing—how they’re weightless remnants of what was once heavy, how he can hold those formerly heavy things in his hand, spread them thin and wash them away until they were barely a memory. And fire; slowly or quickly, fire disintegrated all things— scraps of paper, matches, post-it notes, a tassel, and a bill of some dollar amount from his wallet.

Only this weight on him is not so easy to let go. The void created by Dad's death does not look like the Michael-shaped space everyone seems to think it is; it’s too exceptional for anybody to fill. Inadequacy lurks at his shoulder like a greasy shadow for the greater part of the day, occasionally sharpening into fear that stabs at his chest, and endures as disquiet in the dead of the night.

He's become rather adept at keeping it inside where it belongs. Not always, but he at least made sure Dad never found out. Or did he?

He looks at his family now and wonders if Dad had indeed seen the baseness that limns them all, wonders if that’s what caused him to become so distant, so eager to seek the comfort of his childhood home. Michael may be disgusted at Gabriel’s disloyalty, but he hadn't said a word when Raphael’s immaculate logic morphed into some cruel practicality that leaves a bad taste in the back of his throat every time. He could write off Lucifer as the family lost cause, but what does that make him who never left familiar territory, but was hopelessly lost anyway?

The paper between his fingertips gets reduced to ash, but he doesn’t remove his hand. He wonders instead if his family was ever as happy as he remembers. They must have been, because there were a few moments he wanted never to end, but maybe he was the only one who mistook those brief flashes of lightning for sunshine.

Michael watches the flames find purchase, suffusing the callouses on his fingers with red. He moves his hand along the edges of that steady heat in the same practiced curves of cupping a lover’s face, feeling strangely elated when the fire faithfully licks the tender skin at the center of his palm. A stinging burn surges instantly, real and insistent, like a beacon there to lead him one step at a time to a threshold where he didn’t feel useless, where Dad didn’t fucking die and leave him alone with zero instructions and a microcosm of the universe to run. The fascinating red glow backlighting his hand intensifies with his anger like a sigil to repel the dark. And sure enough, Michael feels lighter; light enough to remove his cufflink and let the prickly heat spread into the folds of his sleeve. The siren call of that heat interweaving with the blossoming pain at his palm takes him so close to that ultimate fevered peak, so close that he nearly misses the sound of the door opening.

Lucifer steps in like he always did, as if he has a right to everything in Michael’s space. He’s no longer wearing his jacket or tie, rather the top few buttons of his white shirt are undone, and his sleeves folded haphazardly up to his elbows.

“What are you doing?” he ventures just as Michael asks, “What do you want?”

He must have sounded adequately brusque because Lucifer frowns. “For fuck’s sake, Michael, I was just trying to look out for you.”

“It’s not your job to worry about me,” Michael replies and tries to project an air of normalcy, but Lucifer already connects the dots when he sees the lit candle, the burnt debris on his desk, and the angry blister on his hand.

Without being asked, the blond examines the wound with a measure of dismay before retrieving a bottled water. Wetting the end of Michael’s tie even against the protest of its owner, he gently presses it against the blister and looks up to ask, “How long?”

“You’re not my shrink, Luci.” he informs his brother.

“Really?” Lucifer snaps back. “Is it so hard to accept that I just care about you? That I love you?"

It’s almost painful to have to find the breath to laugh at that, but Michael manages.

//

_Back then, he and Lucifer had shared everything, including a room, even when they didn’t have to. Boys of a certain age needed their privacy, was the general wink-and-nod consensus, but Lucifer, as usual, had burned the script._

_They were already so close, he'd argued, and Michael had taught him nearly everything. What was so wrong with exploring this sexual frontier together as well? There was plenty wrong, of course, but for all that Michael had never been able to say no to Lucifer, he doesn't think he even wanted to this time._

_He had already been so proud, so devoted to Lucifer that the idea filled him with more disbelief than distaste. Everyone had wanted his little brother, who was liberally gifted with looks and talent and charisma, but Lucifer had wanted Michael alone. It was a call to mission as much as it was an ego boost._

_Things evolved naturally after that. Kissing during brief moments of seclusion, fucking under the covers at night, treating each other to hand jobs when they had time to kill might have been pure hormones, but there were instances enough when Michael would simply look at the overwhelmingly perfect planes and angles that made up his brother and not believe his luck. What could he do but fall in love?_

_He’ll never forget being shocked when Lucifer nearly cried at that, nor the bewildered, but ecstatic warmth in his stomach when the tight circle of Lucifer’s arms held him fast so the little one could properly whisper, “I love you, too.” and “Love you so much, Michael, it hurts."_

_But it hadn't been enough. All that aching love hadn't stopped Lucifer from defying their father, from betraying his family. Love hadn't kept them from hurting each other in the many, many ways they knew how. Eventually, their violent and unending love was as impotent as a paper boat that sank in the rain._

//

Lucifer’s silence is shaded with hurt and Michael can't bring himself to care. What right did he have, mirroring his pain when he left the prickly fold of their family and lived the life he wanted?

“Michael,” Lucifer murmurs faintly. “I’m not lying. Not to you."

“If you say so, little brother."

“Will you please stop acting like I concocted some master plan to abandon you?" Lucifer fumes, eyes frosty. “Ok, you were the one who told me not to come back!"

“Oh, here we go, always blaming everybody but yourself.” Michael rolls his eyes in disgust. “You made a choice to walk out that door and you’re angry that Dad locked it behind you?”

“But you threw me out!” The retort comes almost instantaneously. “You took Dad’s side, even though you were my big brother. Was I supposed to be happy about it?"

“We were happy! We were happy together!” Michael snarls back, and stands up to direct all his formidable attention on his little brother. His clenched fist presses the silk of his tie against the raw skin of his palm, and the pain pushes him over a reckless line he’d lingered on for years, but never crossed.

"I loved you so much, Lucifer, why wasn’t I good enough for you to stick around? Why wasn’t I worth more than your pride?”

Lucifer actually looks dismayed at the question; Michael can see his eyes brighten, but he bought this upon himself. If nothing else tonight, he would learn to leave locked doors shut.

“That is unfair.” the reply is quiet when it finally comes. “Don’t you think I would have given anything for you to stand with me? I don’t know; maybe then, Dad wouldn’t have taken you for granted as much as he did.”

“You're wrong,” Michael shakes his head, denying. “Dad couldn’t stand to look at us after everything you did, and you—who always had to prove one stupid point or another at our expense—you made him hate us!”

“No force on Earth could have made Dad do anything!” Lucifer returns fiercely. “He did this to us. And to this day, I still can’t figure out what he wanted: sons or soldiers or what?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Michael replies conclusively. “It wasn't our job to question him; it’s called being a good son.”

“Jesus Christ."

Lucifer scrubs a hand across his face in a sweeping motion of despair. Michael thinks he should be vaguely offended at the treatment, but Lucifer meets his gaze with a shade of unwilling resignation.

“How can someone want this for their children, Michael?” he asks unexpectedly, wearily. “Unconditional obedience even if it killed them? Would you call two kids brothers and then watch as they fought like dogs in the front yard?“

“Lucifer.”

“We are brothers, for all that even mattered.” Lucifer’s voice shakes for the first time, whole body tense with anger. “I was Dad's favorite, but the second I had an opinion that wasn’t his, everyone was willing to forget I ever existed and that you…you were the perfect prodigy all along.”

Michael frowns. "So what is this, regret or jealousy?"

Lucifer laughs, derisive and harsh in the velvet air. “Oh my god, Michael, you were a little more than my bodyguard as far as Dad was concerned—his good solider, and a nanny when he couldn't be bothered with the babies.” He glances at the burn on Michael’s hand, and flicks his eyes back up. “Tell me, is there even a real person in there?”

Anger boils up so fast that Michael thinks he can feel his insides seize with the force of it. Adrenaline spikes, and the splintered part of him bursts through with all the elated vengeance of an inferno meeting fresh air. When he pulls back, his knuckles are stained with red streaks and spit.

“That real enough for you?” he asks breathlessly, advancing dauntlessly in the wake of Lucifer staggering back because the nerve of this little shit to come back to his forsaken home and presume to question him is—

“Is that all you got?” Lucifer returns, wiping the blood welling from his split lip. “You were always so ready to beat me down, Michael, why? Because I had a mind of my own, or did you think that with me out of the way, you would somehow matter to Dad?"

Michael doesn’t hit him this time. A slap or a punch seems too much like fending off a threat, and the implication that Lucifer was any such thing is laughable at best. He grabs the blond’s collar and pulls him in until he can practically see the silver corona around Lucifer’s irises.

“I will fucking kill you.” he manages to promise, through the twin knots of rage and despair constricting in his throat.

Lucifer scoffs faintly, disdainfully. “Yeah? I’d like to see you try.”

//

_The last time they’d fought was outside the front door. That night, Lucifer had had his worst argument with Dad to date, and this one had spilled from its usual arena in their father's study, wound around the dining table, and ended at the bottom of the stairs where he was given the firm ultimatum: disobey me again, and you won’t have a place in this house._

_Dad’s reaction had been predictable; Lucifer taking it as a challenge, however, had been contrary to Michael's most radical expectations. For all that the second-born was fearless and headstrong, defying their father without compunction in the face of something this serious was not just stubbornness, it was an indelible demarcation of battle lines._

_Raphael had felt it, and took her place at Dad’s side in an armor of disdain. Gabriel had felt it, and made himself scarce rather than choose._

_Which left only Michael to engage directly._

_“It’s not like Dad just does things randomly,” he’d said. “There are people across the world who trust his plan, why can’t you?"_

_“I don’t understand this weird faith you have in the man, Michael.” Lucifer had replied. “I love him as much as you do, but what was the point of all those rags-to-riches stories if he won’t let us do what makes us happy?"_

_Well, that was new, especially given that Lucifer’s happiness had always been a top priority of his many missions. “You’re unhappy?” Michael had asked, curious._

_Lucifer had hesitated just briefly. “You know what I mean.”_

_“No, I don’t.” Michael returned caustically, bitter disappointment already kindled in his chest. “I don’t know why you’re taking things this far when any normal person would be happy to have everything. Do you get off on being some kind of a freak?"_

_Clenched fists and raring muscles—Michael had seen the urge to slip into the familiar currents of a fight ripple through Lucifer’s entire body language then, but all that had come out was a plea. “Michael, please. Just try to understand..."_

_A pale hand reached for his, but Michael would be hard pressed to the forget that moment when, for the first time, his brother had looked so ugly in his play for sympathy. He had recoiled none too subtly from the reaching fingers that he’d kissed and sucked and pressed on to his own heart so many times._

_“No,” he’d said to his brother's face, one word signing and sealing his physical act of rejection. “I’m with Dad; if you leave tonight, don’t bother coming back."_

_Then, it was Lucifer who couldn’t leave well enough alone. “Make me!” he’d shouted back furiously. “If that’s what it takes for you to feel like a man!"_

_The younger boy had barely finished the words before Michael was on him. The fight might have gone for hours or mere seconds before Lucifer was finally eating gravel, his short blond hair clutched tight in Michael’s fingers. With the sense of betrayal seething in his veins right beside all his anger, he didn’t know what else he might have done if Dad hadn’t called him back._

//

In the present, they’re on each other like two cataclysms meeting on the unsuspecting field of Michael’s bedroom. They’re tooth and nail and hand to hand, yet damned if it doesn’t feel like fighting more than it feels like they’re continuing a long conversation. If Michael notes Lucifer’s complete disinclination to create any sort of space between them, he doesn’t comment. He can’t, not without admitting how he can’t seem to let go either.

“Do you think this is a game?” he demands from where he’s managed to shove Lucifer against the side of the bookshelf.

Lucifer takes a raspy, labored breath through his contracted windpipe. “I think we all should have stepped off the chessboard a long time ago."

The answer hits him with the shock of a weight going unexpectedly slack, the stress of it rolling across the multitudes of hairline cracks he’d managed to forget more than hide.

“I think this is Dad right here…” Lucifer continues, and a crackle of terrifying exhilaration raises the hair at the nape of his neck when his keen adversary slips his fingers between Michael’s and digs into the burn mark on his palm.

“And this is me.” The words flow like the final verse of an incantation, weaving nimbly with the pain, and Michael is alight once more.

His brother is rougher now—all stubble and chapped lips, a musky scent of cologne, a harsh moan, and a physical weight that, contrary to Michael’s personal scheme of things, doesn’t just disappear. In spite of everything, he thinks he can get addicted to this feeling, of light pouring in and irradiating his cracked glass self until it almost looks whole again.

Still, when he desperately meets the insistent pressure of Lucifer’s mouth with his own, it’s not for what comfort he can get, but for the natural delight of being reunited with the other half of his soul. Even after all this time, there is a piece of Michael that is still recklessly in love with his wayward brother. He shouldn’t want this as much as he does, but wrong doesn’t mean much when reaching through all the proverbial smoke and ashes to touch his light-bearing brother feels so right.

“Fuck, Michael,” Lucifer breathes roughly, and the tight ball metastasizing at the center of his chest for too long quivers.

Michael gives a short, clipped moan to ease the lump in his throat, then closes his fingers in Lucifer’s hair as his brother persistently coaxes his burnt and crumpled edges open, aiming ruthlessly to smooth him out until he's open and exposed like raw nerve to open air.

Still, the world doesn’t end, not even when they part superfluously and Lucifer deliberately cups the sides of his face, working his thumbs just under the wet rim of Michael's eyes to…to—

“Ow!”

Michael darkly relishes the pained grunt when he slams the heels of his hands into Lucifer’s chest, throwing him back. Not far back enough to matter, but they know as much as any fighter that making space was really about making time.

And as Michael’s harsh and halted breathing fills that time, Lucifer mercifully keeps his mouth shut, which spares him from a whole lot of second guessing. If this is how they were going to break each other to work out their issues, the last thing Michael wants from his adversary is pity. Moreover, Lucifer might have begun this particular battle, but damned if he set the terms of it, too.

Pressing his own back to the wall, Michael grabs Lucifer’s chin for another kiss, sharp and rough and messy. That Lucifer opens up to him so eagerly is a golden little victory as much as it is an avenue ripe to exploit. He nips at his brother’s lips in the same breath he undoes his belt and pants. He tugs on Lucifer’s clothes next, untucking the shirt and the snaps on his slacks before the blond catches on and recoils.

“You pushed,” Michael reminds him sternly, before the baffled look on his brother’s face can turn into words. “You think convincing me that I’m some kind of a victim will somehow absolve you of your sins, but you’re wrong."

As he unbuttons the rest of his shirt and unravels the makeshift bandage, he watches something flicker in Lucifer’s eyes. It’s unclear whether he’s thrown his brother off balance or just made him angrier, but Michael, for one, is looking forward to the fallout. It’s his last chance for a good thing here, and if anybody could make it hurt, it would be Lucifer.

“Take what you want, little brother,” he taunts, opening his arms. “In the end, you still won’t have changed a bit."

The world tilts up. Michael holds back a groan at the pain of drywall connecting with the back of his head, and blinks away the double vision in time for Lucifer to step in between his parted legs. Weirdly enough, it reminds him of when they were kids, eagerly on the hunt for a secluded place to blow off some steam. The laundry room had been a favorite, if Michael remembers correctly; the intimacy of the tiny room, the noise of the machines keeping their sounds between them, and Lucifer’s eager, searching mouth on his.

Even now, Lucifer’s teeth scrape at his collar and Michael’s heart quickens; he wonders how different it’ll feel this time around. Would his body recognize the familiar patterns of Lucifer’s hands sliding on its not-so-virgin planes, or the slick paths of his tongue, the weight of his cock?

“Mich-hhh…” Everything shakes.

Michael's shoulder feels wet. When he can finally focus, Lucifer’s breath is too damp and his voice too thick, but what really gets him is the way the blond folds his taller frame to burrow into the crook of Michael's neck, for all the world like he’s six years old again, terrified and desperate for comfort.

“Michael,” his little brother sobs, and something in him shatters into uncountable pieces.

//

_They were happy together, once._

_Michael remembers endless summer nights in their spacious back garden— Lucifer, his brighter half, finding any excuse for them to touch; Raphael’s rampant curiosity taking her far from their orbit and back again; Gabriel, easily excitable and sticky sweet._

_He remembers all of them lying down and gazing up at the very distinct lack of stars against a sky rendered pitch black with smog and pollution._

_It’s dark up where heaven is, Dad had said then, because all the angels are down here._

//

All things ended where they began, even love, even family.

He’d finally channeled the potent spirit of their father, only to force his brother to punish him. Defeat from the jaws of success; the irony is not lost on Michael.

“Go,” he begs his brother, hands curled against the wall. “Get away, Lucifer. Please."

—

“No, Michael, let’s not throw each other away again."

But even an apocalypse can become an armistice.

—


End file.
